


Stucco and Warm Light, the Taste of Toothpaste

by Nerves



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, During Canon, Established Relationship, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, No Strings Attached, Older Man/Younger Man, Post-Coital, Random & Short, Sex, confused feelings, referenced gang violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:41:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23931724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerves/pseuds/Nerves
Summary: After another illicit encounter with his mysterious acquaintance Mike, Nacho lies awake and thinks too much.
Relationships: Mike Ehrmantraut/Ignacio "Nacho" Varga
Comments: 7
Kudos: 37





	Stucco and Warm Light, the Taste of Toothpaste

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, thanks for checking out this story! After coming back to Better Call Saul after having not seen any of it since season 1 aired, I binged the whole thing in like 3 days and have been absolutely obsessed with these two ever since. I love both characters and their dynamic tremendously, and even though I think they're both pretty tough to write for I wanted to take a stab at it. This doesn't take place at any particular time during the show since it's obviously AU, and it doesn't follow a plot. Just a little snapshot of a hypothetical sexual relationship they might have, nothing more to it. Feedback is welcome, I would like to get a better hang of these characters and maybe at some point tackle a bigger piece with them. In the mean time, please enjoy! If you like it, please leave a kudos and/or a comment!
> 
> P.S. There's a brief sex scene in this, and I personally couldn't decide if I wanted to write Nacho as trans or cis so I left it vague. Feel free to imagine whatever you wish while reading.

The fan in the corner of the room whirs monotonously, its incessant thrum as consistent and mindless as the slow blink of the red numbers on the electric alarm clock on the nightstand. Nacho stares up at the ceiling, the faint yellow glow of a street light pouring in through the window and making shadowy figures on the textured ceiling. He’s been staring for what feels like hours, eyes restless and heart pounding, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the sound of a car to come to an idle rumbling stop on the street below, waiting for new shadows to dance their way across the stucco, waiting for the sound of creaking steps.

All he hears is the fan, his own heartbeat, and the soft breathing of the body next to him. It’s a mistake. He knows it’s a mistake. The first couple of times were bad - well they were _good,_ but that’s what made them bad, made them dangerous. He’s never stayed before, and he knows he shouldn’t have - Mike knows it too, knows it well because each time after he’s caught his breath, after he’s pulled back up his pants and walked to the bathroom and cleaned himself up, come back to his bedroom to get ready to turn in, Nacho’s been gone. He never asks him to stay, never _wants_ him too.

So why is Nacho laying here at 3am, staring at stucco, his naked body covered only by a sheet? Why didn’t he leave while Mike cleaned himself up? Why didn’t he get up and pull back on his jeans, button up his shirt (only to just below his pecs, of course,) slip on his boots and get the fuck out of dodge like he should have the first time, back when it was just one time, one time that could never happen again?

Mike had stopped in the doorway when he came back, showered and wearing a t-shirt and briefs, the lines on his face deep like a craggy rock shelf, deepening as he laid his eyes on the thirty-something still in his bed, still naked, sweat on his skin long dried to a sticky, uncomfortable film. Nacho had stared back at him, waiting to be scolded, waiting for _what the hell are you still doing here, kid_ , for _get the hell out of my house,_ for anything at all. It felt like hours, but in reality was a short, silent exchange that wasn’t more than eight seconds before Mike heaved a sigh, flicked off the light switch, and said “Get the lamp.”

Nacho did after Mike sat down, the mattress sinking under his weight.

And so now he stares, heart beating fast still even though it’s been nearly two hours without any sign of trouble. Surely Mike would have said something, made him leave if there was any real cause for concern, right? Or if he truly didn’t want him here? Nacho exhales long and hard through barely open lips, forcing himself to squeeze his eyes shut. This was a bad idea. It still _is_ a bad idea. He should just leave, leave while Mike’s still asleep, leave and make it so they never have to talk about this, never have to think about this lapse in judgement ever again.

He doesn’t move. He _can’t_. It’s stupid, it’s so fucking stupid. His heart is beating so fast, not out of fear but because the warm body next to him is _Mike’s_ , the one constant that still brings him comfort in this absolutely batshit situation he finds himself in. He should sleep, he knows he should - but he’s terrified that when he wakes up, he’ll find that he likes waking up next to this wrinkly old _gringo_ too much.

He exhales again, forces his body to relax. He counts to ten before he opens his eyes again, and turns to look at the body next to him. Mike has his back to him, the yellow light from the street lamp casting a sickly hue on his white t-shirt and the pale, wrinkled skin on the back of his bald head. There it is again, that stupid fucking fluttering in his chest. It’s embarrassing, the feelings of a teenager brought forth by some old man. Disgusting.

He’s rolled onto his side now, reaching out slowly. His hand hovers over Mike’s upper arm, where his sleeve gives way to skin, skin Nacho knows is soft and yielding. If he’s startled from sleep, will he strike out and hit Nacho? Will he break whatever reverie has caught them, shatter whatever comfort they’ve accidentally stumbled into?

Nacho takes in a breath, and runs the back of his knuckles against Mike’s arm gently, brushing over the liver-spotted skin with a tenderness unbecoming of either of them. Mike does not react, does not move, save for the steady rise and fall of his chest. Nacho finds himself moving closer, a spring in the mattress creaking as he draws near, slipping his fingers around the older man’s upper arm, into the crease of his elbow. Such a hardened, terrifying man - and yet his softness is a kind unlike any other that Nacho has experienced. He brushes his fingers down over his forearm, over the fine white hairs and wrinkles, feeling bone and waning muscle underneath that tender flesh, still terrifyingly strong even with how much of that strength he’s lost.

When his fingers brush over Mike’s wrist, he feels another hand come up to grab his own rather abruptly, stopping his movement with a firm grip that leaves no room for argument. Nacho swallows hard, his heart skipping. The older man’s chest still rises and falls at the same rate, and as his voice echoes over the fan it’s clear that he’s slept as much as Nacho has. “If you’re going to stay, kid, go to sleep,” Mike drawls, voice low and hoarse. Nacho exhales, prying his hand out from under Mike’s and slipping it back up towards his upper arm.

“ _You’re_ not sleeping,” he says lowly, as if the response means anything, as if it’s any kind of a point that he’s made. He slips his fingers under the fabric of Mike’s sleeve, watching closely for any response. Mike doesn’t move, doesn’t react, just takes in a deep breath.

“And what about it?” Mike asks, still as a statue. Nacho still watches, fingertips rubbing lazy circles on the skin of his shoulder before he slips them back down his arm.

“We’re both awake,” Nacho observes, sliding his hand underneath Mike’s arm, over his hip and onto his abdomen. Mike lets out a heavy sigh, adjusting his arm to allow Nacho to move his hand further around. The younger man moves closer, breath hot on the back of Mike’s neck, pressing his bare chest against his back, the thin cotton the only thing between their bodies.

“Yeah,” Mike says, taking that tone that he does when he follows it up with an expectant _and?_ He lets it hang unsaid this time, his breath hitching as Nacho slides his hand up under his shirt, fingers running over his belly, up into the soft white hairs on his chest. Nacho sighs, closes his eyes. His heart still races as he presses his face against the back of Mike’s neck, nuzzling it before placing a kiss on the wrinkled flesh by the nape. “What are you doing here, kid?” he asks after a long moment, his voice perhaps breathier than he meant. Nacho smirks for the briefest moment, and presses another kiss to his neck as he gently scrapes his nails down his chest. Mike lets out a low hiss and a groan, the noise almost akin to a growl with the low register of his voice. Nacho kisses his neck again, and again, and runs his fingers down over the older man’s briefs. He feels his cock with his hand, already half-hard under his attentions.

“You tell me,” he murmurs, gently rubbing his cock through the cotton, feeling Mike harden more under his touch. Abruptly, Mike rolls onto his back, grabbing his wrist and pulling it away from his cock. Nacho is forced to roll too, back flat against the mattress as he holds his wrist, staring at him. He’s keenly aware of how close their faces are, the bulbous end of Mike’s nose centimeters from his own, their breath mixing in the space between them. His heart beats faster, his face feels hot, and he thinks again how incredibly stupid this is, this feeling that starts in his chest and pulls a fog over his brain, heat spreading to his groin.

How many times has he fucked this old man now? How many times has he put his mouth around his cock, swallowed his cum as he touches himself? How many times as he sucked his fingers as this old man thrusts into him leisurely like they have nothing else to do, nowhere to go, like they’re not already living on borrowed time?

They’re staring at each other’s mouths, he realizes. In all those times where they laid bare before each other, all those intimacies shared - how has he never kissed him? He meets Mike’s gaze again. Even in the dimness of the yellow light, he can see the red flush on the man’s pale face. It makes his chest feel tight.

Nacho closes the distance, beard scratching against Mike’s as he kisses him, tasting the toothpaste on his mouth as he does so. He must not taste nearly as fresh in comparison, he thinks self consciously - but then Mike lets go of his wrist, wraps his hand around the back of his neck and holds him close, mouth moving with a tenderness steadily building towards hunger. Nacho feels the old man’s teeth nibble his lower lip, and he moans in spite of himself, kissing him with an open mouth and laving his tongue with his own. Nacho can tell he’s out of practice, but his skill is still evident however rusty he may be.

How did they get here?

It’s a mistake still, but he can’t think about that now, not with their mouths on each other feeling like the only thing left that matters

Before too long Nacho has climbed on top of him, rubbing their groins together as he kisses him hard, hands on either side of Mike’s face. They moan into each other’s mouths low and quiet like it’s a secret that could be uncovered at any moment, like if they like each other too much some men will come running to make them more bulletholes than flesh.

He likes him. He likes him so much, way more than he ever meant to. His heart is hammering, beating against his ribs with a violence that has no place here in their secret bubble, this tender place birthed in surprise from a mutual attraction neither will outright acknowledge. It hurts how comfortable, how easy it feels, knowing that they writhe with abandon on the edge of a knife.

Nacho finally pulls his mouth away when Mike’s cock slips inside him, burying his face into the pillow to stifle his moan, almost pained though there’s no feeling he likes more than being full. He slides down onto the old man’s modest length, those strong hands holding his hips all the while, Mike’s low moan in his ear, his own shuddering breath escaping his lips as he reaches the hilt before he rises again. He sits up, hands on Mike’s shoulders, and he rides him, rides him hard, harder than usual. The old man’s nails dig in hard, spreading his cheeks and holding him tight.

Nacho keeps his moans as quiet as he can, biting his lip, squeezing his eyes shut while he grips Mike’s shoulders like a lifeline. The fan still rattles in the corner, slick sounds reverberating against the walls along with the slapping of sticky flesh, and Nacho throws his head back, moaning loud, too loud, loud enough to make him nothing more than a slab of meat perfect for firing a machinegun at should it meet the wrong ears.

As Nacho rides him, their shadows dance on the stucco, black and empty, fleeting moments captured only in the mind’s eye. The sound of a car idling outside never comes, and when the shadows’ owners do Nacho collapses on Mike’s chest, face buried in his neck. It’s a mistake, a stupid fucking mistake, something awful that will end with him in a shallow grave out in the desert, and there will be no Mike to come find him.

He pants and shudders, Mike’s hands rubbing his back, his cum leaking out as his cock slips free. He pants and shudders, and eventually they slow and even out.

He still smells toothpaste on Mike’s breath.

He doesn’t dare to kiss him again, no matter how much he wants to.

He falls asleep. He does not dream.

When he wakes, Mike is gone, and he doesn’t think about the sinking feeling in his chest.


End file.
